West of Paradise by Marcy Hatch Page B

body was perfect, slender where it should be and nicely rounded in all the right places. She wasn’t too tall or too short, and her hair was an interesting shade of brown, coppery when the sun hit it.
    But pretty as she was he couldn’t help but wonder how she managed to look exactly the same—if not a bit better. There were other things, too, things he’d dismissed at first, like the way she talked and swore when she was mad. Even her insistence that she was not Alanna McLeod troubled him. He had expected a fight and an attempt at escape but she knew damn well he’d seen her that day. She’d stared right at him when she’d shot him. How could she deny who she was and what she’d done? He had told himself it was an act, a pretense to avoid the trial and certain hanging.
    But the doubt persisted, nudging him again when she said drunkenly, “I’m not her, Jack,” which only reminded him how she hadn’t shot him when she tried to escape. Why? Why hadn’t she shot him? He looked away, reminding himself that she was a consummate actress in addition to being a murderess and a thief.
    He held onto the thought as he gave in to sleep, holding it as tightly as he held the rope that bound her hands.

Chapter Eight
Ambush
    T he rain continued to fall in spurts that ranged from a steady drizzle to an outright downpour. By the time Will and Tommy reached the Arkansas River all that was dry were a few hairs on the top of their heads. Will had been sucking on the bottle in an effort to relieve his discomfort, but thus far it had offered nothing of any benefit. The nice, clean feeling he’d had was a distant memory, a lovely dream washed away by the rain.
    By this time the water had risen over the shallow crossing, and they ended up an hour out of their way finding a place to cross. They were half-way to the other side when Tommy’s horse stumbled, and they both went floundering into the cold water. Tommy flung out a hand and Will grabbed him before he was lost, pulling the boy and his horse to the other side.
    They’d rested then, too tired from crossing to dismount, simply sitting there and staring dully at one another. The wind whipped the rain against their faces and the wind stole into the folds of their coats and at some point they started off again.
    “Might as well keep moving,” Will said. “We’ll be wet and miserable either way.”
    The night stretched endlessly before them and the cold, gray light of morning found them riding into Baker’s Flats, a dying town with a pitifully small population. The town woke up when Will and Tommy rode through, alerted by two mangy dogs which set off a racket, baying loud enough to wake the dead.
    Three women came to their doors dressed in caps and nightgowns, their faces frightened imitations of one another. The men, ranging in age from a score of years to too many to count, took up their places along the street, rubbing their sleepy eyes and holding their shotguns before them like talismans.
    Will tipped his hat drunkenly and grinned, passing through the place like a black cloud. Tommy stared with longing at the tiny saloon, and for a moment Will did, too, imagining its warmth and the friendly smell of whiskey and smoke. Then he tore his eyes away and forced his gaze grimly ahead to the plains.
    A glance at the sky told him it would be a while before the weather improved. He was almost grateful because if the sun had been shining, it would be sending white shards of agony through his head right now. The slow rocking motion of his horse didn’t help and he had to remind himself to breathe so not to be sick in the saddle like a baby. It had been a while since he’d had a whole bottle all to himself, and it had not agreed with him.
    They plodded on, neither of them with too much enthusiasm until mid-morning when Tommy suddenly stopped.
    “Lookit there,” he said, pointing.
    Will glanced up, red-eyed, and managed to focus on the horse, a chestnut with white socks, grazing off